


The Fear and Dread

by jawsandbones



Series: Ficlits [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: As if Solas wouldn't know that Fenris and Hawke are badasses, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 21:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16626485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: Fenris and Hawke receive an unwelcome guest in their home.After all the pain in receiving them, keeping them – he has earned them, and all the trouble they bring. “No,” is his only answer, to all Solas offers.“A pity. You have remarkable potential. It must have been difficult to learn how to wield such a broken weapon so effectively. I only wonder at what you could achieve with the proper thing,” Solas says.





	The Fear and Dread

She puts a hand to the small of his back as she passes him. Another small touch, to his elbow, before she settles in beside him. Sudden, brief affection, something that comes so easily to her. Even all these years later, there’s nothing quite like it. They smile at each other as Hawke passes him the plate, and he lets it sink into soapy water. She takes up the dry cloth, ready for when he hands her a glass. They work wordlessly, but not without a gentle hip check from her, a teasing elbow from Fenris.

Hawke suddenly looks up, the smile gone, a frown slowly taking its place. She places the bowl carefully on the counter as she looks over her shoulder, listening to something he cannot hear. Putting the cloth down as well, and she turns to face the door. Fenris turns with her. “What is it?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” she says, in a low whisper. Looking at the darkened doorway, the light from the kitchen spilling into the hall. Darkness ever farther, no need to light the candles when they’ve only been in this room. Somehow, on this night more than any other, it seems malevolent. His stance widens, and he can feel the power rising in her. Keeping her magic close to the surface, pooling in her palms. Moments stretch out into minutes, long silence that screams in their ears.

Others might have passed it off as paranoia. Hearing something that wasn’t there, or perhaps a simple trick of the light. Not Hawke. She stands ready, and so he stands with her. She’s never been wrong before. They are both unprepared for what crosses their threshold. They’ve been given description of him. Varric speaking long into the night of every detail of him. He has his hands clasped behind his back, gold armor glinting in firelight. Solas slowly comes into frame, and both Hawke and Fenris leap into the defense of their home.

Hawke kicks over the table, tea cups smashing to the floor, sending it flying to block the doorway. He sends it back to her with a single flick of his head. It hovers in air, caught between the two of them, until it shatters into splinters. Pushing off, Fenris wades through it, lyrium markings igniting from fingertip to bone. For him, Solas at least has to use his hand. It’s as if he brushes away a moth. Fenris is caught in a cradle of Hawke’s magic, and she moves forward towards the intruder. “Be still,” Solas says. She stops mid-step with her hand outstretched, some murderous expression.

“What have you done to her?” Fenris asks, pushing himself to his feet, the blue glow of his markings clashing with that of the candles overhead.

“She is fine. I merely wish to speak with you without interruption,” Solas tells him. He wants to try again. Some heady charge to catch him off guard. He’s without his sword however, and without his partner. The light of his markings slowly fade, and Fenris stands up tall, crosses his arms.

“She isn’t going to be pleased about that,” he says. Solas briefly chuckles, a small thing under his breath. “What do you want Solas?” He finally steps into the room. Walking over broken china, and what remains of their table. The closer he gets, the more the lyrium in Fenris’s skin begins to prickle. Standing in front of lightning, the spark near enough to reach out and touch.

“Varric was always quite proud to speak of his friends in Kirkwall. He told me much about you. A highly capable warrior. You could be more than what you are now,” Solas says, casting a glance around their kitchen, the dishes in the sink. “Far more. You deserve a position that suits the power you hold.”

“You want me to join you.”

“Yes.” It has been whispered. Through circle after circle, making its way to those trustworthy. The secrets spread by what remains of the Inquisition. A resistance forms out of sight, gathering strength. They recruit the strong, the bold, any who might stand a fighting chance. It seems Solas is gathering his forces as well.

“You would be better off speaking to Merrill,” Fenris says. He knows she would never join him. It seems Solas knows as well. He smiles slightly.

“I have. She turned me down. Quite politely, actually,” he says. Fenris can picture it. Merrill, hands clasped, giving the Dread Wolf, one of her gods, her deepest and sincerest apologies. “In case you are worried, she is unharmed. I do not take the unwilling, nor do I punish them for being so.” His smile fades into sadness, apologetic for what he knows is coming.

He steps forward, and Fenris resists the urge to step back. Reaching for his arm, and Fenris suppresses the flinch, the want to push him away. Solas traces the markings on his wrist, his arm, and looks up at him. “I have seen these before. The ones that you possess are crude, but functional. In the days of Arlathan, they were oft given to warriors held in the highest esteem. Yours can be improved, to rival even the warriors of that time,” he says, as he slowly lets go. Fenris quickly crosses his arms one again. “Or, I can remove them, should you so prefer.”   

After all the pain in receiving them, keeping them – he has earned them, and all the trouble they bring. “No,” is his only answer, to all Solas offers.

“A pity. You have remarkable potential. It must have been difficult to learn how to wield such a broken weapon so effectively. I only wonder at what you could achieve with the proper thing,” Solas says. A blink, and he looks over his shoulder. Those splintered bits of wood are rising from the floor, broken china wobbling where they lay. A bead of sweat rolls down Hawke’s temple.

“If you accept my offer, Hawke would be welcome to come with you,” Solas tells him. He sounds almost impressed.

“No. We refuse,” Fenris says. A deep inhale, a slow sigh, and Solas shakes his head regretfully.

“A pity.”

“We will be something for you to fear, Dread Wolf,” Fenris tells him.

“We shall see,” Solas says. They were caught off guard this time. They won’t be, next time. He turns on his heel, leaves the same way he came. The front door closes, and whatever holds Hawke finally falters. Fenris rushes forward, moves to catch her in his arms. She holds to him as she steadies herself.

“Are you alright?” she asks, as she struggles to catch her breath, raising a still trembling hand to his cheek.

“I should be the one asking you that,” Fenris says, wrapping an arm around her waist, her arm over his shoulders. Forehead pressed against forehead, and her breathing begins to even out. “Could you hear what he said?” The slightest nod. They stand together, and Hawke lets her head fall against his shoulder.

“We should tell Varric,” she says.

“Yes.” Neither of them move. Instead, they are content to hold each other closer, keenly aware of how close they were to unstoppable danger. Next time.

Next time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


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